The stillness in my home is golden. Jack is napping, Forrest has drifted off to sleep in my arms while nursing, and my husband and in-laws are at the store.

I am relishing the quiet.

There are three cheerful sunflowers on my kitchen table. Hummingbirds flit around the feeder hanging outside my window. There is a faint smell of this morning’s coffee and bacon hanging in the room. Jack’s Matchbox cars are meticulously lined up, one in front of the other, as if in traffic, along the piano. The vertical blinds on our window are haphazardly pushed aside from a little boy who loves to stand there and observe the outside world. Couch cushions are in disarray, there’s an orange sand pail under the table, and there are several half-full glasses of water scattered about the room.

We do life in this room.

I love the life we live in this room.

Last night, Jack was rolling a ball on the floor with his friend. I remembered that the very first time I rolled that ball to him, he had just learned to sit up, at 6 months old, and he was plopped in the same spot on the floor, in this room.

There is a lot to be thankful for.


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